Dispatch to the North

I often think about the alternate paths
that you might have chosen.  The unknown
ones beyond the white picket fence.

Perhaps, you own a vintage record
shop.  And smile at customers with
sunshine flowing all over your back.

Sweet and low, your voice floats over
scores of ears – sweat trickling down
rough rosy cheeks.

In the country on a Sunday evening.  You
sip on white wine while listening to The
Carter Family.  Yakking on a porch swing.

At Hampton Court Gardens you enjoy
a spot of tea.  The tulips blooming as
far as your blue, beloved eyes can see.

One thousand roads fan out behind us.
Yellow woods, wondrous and vast, shall
never be encountered again.

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